The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller))

by Tom Lowe

  The doctor answered. “He’ll live, but he’ll be sore for a while.” The doctor, early thirties, prematurely balding, began writing a prescription. He looked over the rims of his glasses and said, “Sean, start taking these twice a day, soon as you can, to keep infections down. Put an icepack on the eye. And this one is for pain.” As he turned to leave, he said, “Sorry to hear you were mugged.”

  When the doctor went into another room, Hamilton said, “Mugged?”

  “What am I going to tell him? Doc, I was thrown into a ring with a psycho killer who literally wanted to take my head off. I became the victim in what amounts to a human slaughterhouse. A place where international tourists go to watch one man beat another to death. If you can’t catch it live, it’s available on black market DVD and Internet sites for armchair psychopaths.”

  “Can you walk?” Hamilton asked

  “They haven’t broken my knees yet.”

  “Let’s go outside to talk about this, okay?

  #

  HAMILTON AND O/BRIEN got into an unmarked Miami PD car and O’Brien tilted his head back against the headrest. His cell rang. It was Detective Dan Grant.

  “Sean, we looked at Lyle Johnson’s cell phone records the day he was killed. He made one call. It was to his home number—his wife.”

  “No calls to Miami Beach?”

  “No.”

  “He made one. Probably stole a cell there in the hospital. See if anyone reported a phone stolen. If you find one, check those records for that day. Thanks, Dan.”

  O’Brien disconnected and looked over toward Hamilton. “Before I tell you how I spent my night, can I ask what happened to you? If ever I could have used backup, Ron, it was last night.”

  “Bad wreck, Seventh and Collins. Even with a blue light, I couldn’t go anywhere for twenty minutes. By the time I got to the gym, the place looked as vacant as a church on Monday. Locked. Dark. No sign of a yellow Ferrari. Nobody. Saw a black T-bird park about a block away. That was about it.”

  “T-bird is mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “Borrowed it from former defense attorney, Tucker Houston—”

  “Wait a minute—you have Tucker Houston working for you?”

  “He’s doing me a favor. He’s really doing Charlie Williams the favor. He’s trying to get a stay of execution from federal judge, Samuel Davidson.”

  “How’d you get Tucker Houston to sign on?”

  “Simple. He’s an honest defense lawyer. When were you at the gym?”

  “After nine.”

  “Unless I went through some kind of time warp…that was about when I was getting the shit kicked out of me, literally.” O’Brien spent the next ten minutes telling Hamilton everything that happened from the time he entered the gym through his waking up in an alley with piles of garbage next to him.

  Hamilton leaned back in the seat and made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. “Think you killed Salazar?”

  “No. Wanted to. He went down, and when I stumbled out of the ring…he was still breathing.”

  “Sports betting on fights to the death—like something you’d find in Malaysia or some damn place”

  “Why can’t the cocaine importation capital of the world have world-class death spectator sports for its clientele?”

  “Russo never called me to drop the charges against you.”

  “Probably because he instructed Salazar to kill me. So with all these charges pending against me—now manslaughter charges potentially on my portfolio, and Charlie Williams facing an execution in…” O’Brien looked at his watch. “…in twenty-two hours, I guess sleep isn’t an option.”

  Hamilton started to say something when his cell rang. He answered, nodded and said, “Where exactly was the body? The ME thinks it’s what?” A long pause and Hamilton said, “Thanks, Jim.” He hung up, exhaled a sigh. “We found Salazar’s body. They said he looked like he’d been beaten with an aluminum bat. Coroner’s preliminary exam at the site is that Salazar died from a broken neck.”

  “Broken neck? Someone killed him after the fight. Where’d they find the body?”

  “An alley at Ninth and Jasmine. Lying behind a dumpster. That’s less than a half block from where you spent the night. You have no memory of fighting him outside, in an alley?”

  “No. It didn’t happen. I was dumped there. And I’m betting Salazar was, too. It takes the heat off the gym and maybe off Russo if he has an interest in what goes on there. And if I’d been spotted by a prowl car in that alley before I came to, in such close proximity to the Salazar’s body, I’d be in a holding cell now. Let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Sixth Street Gym.”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  A dozen cars were parked on the street outside Sixth Street Gym when O’Brien and Detective Ron Hamilton arrived. Going through the front door, Hamilton said, “Sunday morning, maybe the gym is like attending church for some people.”

  O’Brien said, “The body’s a temple…mine’s just a little cracked.”

  They walked down the hall and entered the gym, O’Brien scanning every sweaty face to see who was there from last night. He recognized no one. He stood next to a heavy bag and looked. His eyes followed a man skipping rope near the large American flag on the far wall. There was something different.

  The flag moved. Just slightly at the left corner where the man fanned the rope. Yesterday, the flag was pulled tight across the door. Now it hung there, the ends next to the floor not secured.

  There was a noise that sounded like a saw. O’Brien turned toward a small windowless office away from the speed bags. He said to Hamilton, “That guy, the one with the blender going…he was here last night. He’s got a thick Irish accent.”

  They approached the man who was topping off the smoothie he poured from the blender into a large Styrofoam cup. He said, “Good morning, gentlemen. Here for a workout?” To O’Brien he said, “Tell me I should see the other guy.”

  “I would, but he’s dead.”

  The trainer sipped his drink. No reaction. Then he said, “Guess you don’t need boxing lessons.”

  “I need a straight answer. What happened to your accent?”

  “Pardon me.”

  “The Irish accent. You’re dropping it now. Why?”

  “Sorry, mate, I don’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about.”

  “Like hell you don’t! You’re the one who carried me out of the ring. You were then one who probably finished off Salazar.”

  “Ring? Salazar?”

  “The fight! Salazar attacked me in front of at least three-dozen cheering, betting witnesses. What’d you do, bus them in and then take them back to their hotels?”

  “I think it’s time you two move on.”

  Ron Hamilton showed his badge. “I say when it’s time to leave. We’re investigating a murder. And as far as I’m concerned, this is a crime scene. What’s your name? And show me an ID.”

  “Michael Killen.”

  “Where’s the ring?” asked O’Brien.

  “As you can see, we have two rings.”

  “Not those. You have another. Intimate seating for your morbid fans.”

  The trainer sipped his drink and said, “I haven’t a clue, pal.”

  “Oh, really?” said O’Brien. “I can tell you’re lying. You keep your body in shape, but you can’t control the pulse through the carotid artery in the side of your neck. It speaks volumes.” O’Brien turned to walk toward the American flag. “Let’s see what’s behind door number one.”

  SEVENTY-THREE

  The trainer and Hamilton followed him. O’Brien lifted up part of the flag from the floor. Two large gray metal doors were behind it. He started to enter. The doors were locked. “Open it!”

  The trainer finished his drink. “Not without a warrant.”

  Hamilton said, “Don’t need a search warrant at a crime scene.”

  “This is not a crime scene.”

  “Sure it is,”
said Hamilton. “And it’s also a Sunday. Usually it’s a slow news day. One call and the media will be all over this place. We’ll slap some crime scene tape in front of your door and this gym will carry a nasty stigma for years.”

  The trainer looked toward the front of the gym floor a second and said, “It’s nothing but a warehouse for storage.”

  “Then open it,” said O’Brien.

  The trainer sighed, fished for a key in his pocket and unlocked the door. They entered. There was no ring. No seating for a crowd. No video cameras. Nothing but metal chairs stacked in one corner, lots of old heavy bags and broken weights, a dismantled ring, ropes, posts, canvas, old fight posters and risers stacked in one corner.

  O’Brien would have laughed had his face not hurt so badly. “How’d you do it?”

  “Do what?” asked the trainer, deadpanned face.

  “How did you take this apart, store it, sweep the place up and make it look like no one’s been in here.”

  “Maybe it’s because nobody has been in here in weeks.”

  “Open that canvas!”

  “What?”

  “Take the rolled up mat out of the corner and unroll it on the floor.”

  The trainer laughed, shook his head, kicked the canvas down with one of his massive legs and unrolled it. The mat was old and worn, but no signs of fresh stains.

  “Where’s the one you used last night?”

  “This canvas hasn’t been used since Foreman trained on it. Look, pal, all this stuff is like a graveyard of old boxing junk…outdated…not much more than a novelty. We got some stuff in here that goes back to when Ali was training over at 5th Street with Dundee. We got stuff in here that goes back way before Ali. Look at that fight poster of the Raging Bull, the Bronc Bull, ol’ Jake LaMotta. They tell me he ran a club here in Miami Beach after his retirement. But that was before me time.”

  O’Brien reached behind his back and pulled out the Glock, pointing it at the trainer’s chest. He said, “Before me time? LaMotta was said to have a granite chin. How about you, asshole?”

  “Get this crazy fucker away from me!” shouted the trainer to Hamilton.

  “Sorry, he’s an independent contractor. Doesn’t answer to me”

  The trainer’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “I’ll sue!”

  O’Brien said, “No you won’t! You carried me out of here. Tossed me out with the garbage. You, or one of your grunts, snuffed Salazar and dumped his body near me to make it look like I killed him.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Yes! Yes I am. Wanna see how crazy? Who’re you working for?”

  Hamilton’s cell rang, the rings sounding far away in the warehouse. He answered it. Hamilton listened, holding a hand in the air to get O’Brien’s attention. Hamilton cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder and made timeout sign with his hands. He said, “I’ll need that statement in writing. Your attorney can bring an affidavit or contact the state attorney and give it to him in writing. This applies to Sergio Conti, too.” Hamilton grunted and hung up. He said to O’Brien. “Sean, let’s talk.”

  O’Brien lowered the Glock. The trainer grinned. O’Brien said, “Stay right there!”

  O’Brien and Hamilton walked to the opposite side of the small warehouse. Hamilton said, “You’re not gonna believe who called—”

  “Russo.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Because with Salazar dead, the last living witness to Russo’s connection with Charlie Williams is gone. I become a moot point.”

  “Now we have another murder on our hands. This one is the death of a hit man.”

  “And I’d bet you a day’s receipts from Russo’s drug operation that the big leprechaun here in the corner is nothing more than a real con. I’m sure he works for Russo. And probably snapped Salazar’s neck as soon as they tossed me in the trash.”

  Something caught O’Brien’s eye. A reflection. A small object lying next to a stack of cardboard boxes. He stepped to the boxes, knelt down, and picked up the item. O’Brien held it to the light.

  “What’s that?” asked Hamilton. “Looks like an eye.”

  “This is a black onyx earring. Last night our Irish host was wearing it. I saw it fall off his ear when he tossed me over his shoulder.”

  “So much for no one in here in weeks. This place is a boxing museum in boxes, for God sakes. Looks like we stepped into a twilight zone time warp, a place where Joe Louis and the Rock are on faded posters. A killer is dead. Somebody snapped his neck. He was breathing when you left the ring. This fight didn’t exist. In the alley, you got rats, roaches and a body found a hundred yards from you. So what?”

  “What are you saying, Ron?”

  “I’m saying you have two days to save Charlie Williams’ life. You’re off the hook. We’ll see if we can find something tangible to tie steroids over there to Salazar’s slip on the banana peel. You’ll have a better chance to toss Williams a life ring, now that Tucker Houston’s on board. When’s he meeting with Judge Davidson?”

  O’Brien looked at his watch. “If church is out at noon, five minutes.”

  “In five minutes Charlie Williams may have something to cling to.”

  As they walked past the trainer, O’Brien said, “You swept up well. But you missed something.” O’Brien tossed the earring to him and said, “Something always slips through the cracks. I would have thought that earring was onyx. But it’s only polished blarney. Gottcha, mate.”

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  It was 1:30 in the afternoon and O’Brien had not heard from Tucker Houston. O’Brien put the top down on the T-Bird and pushed the car up to eighty as he crossed the Rickenbacker Causeway on his way back to Tucker’s house. The bay was deep sapphire, the afternoon sun scattering diamond-like reflections from the swells kicked up by boat traffic. O’Brien watched a large sailboat raise the spinnaker as the skipper cut the motor and caught the wind toward the pass to the sea.

  Tucker Houston’s car was in the drive. O’Brien parked the T-bird and knocked on the door. When Tucker answered, he was still dressed in his church clothes—pleated slacks, powder blue shirt with a maroon tie loosened to the first open button. He’d kicked off his shoes and was sipping tomato juice from a clear glass mug.

  “My God,” said Tucker, “if I had known you were going to look like this, I’d have said a prayer for you before starting the fight.” Tucker motioned for him to come in the house. They sat in the pool patio area.

  “Sean, what the hell happened?”

  “I managed to survive what amounted to a death match.”

  “What?”

  “Back room, gym.” O’Brien told Tucker what happened.

  Tucker sipped his juice and said, “FBI needs to be made aware of that operation.”

  “What did Judge Davidson say?”

  “His wife said he was in Seattle, something to do with their oldest son and a business deal he was trying to tie together.”

  “When’s he return?”

  “Not until Thursday.”

  “What are our options?”

  “I can file with the Fifth Circuit. Because of the impending ominous hour, the court might move it up the docket. Maybe hear it Tuesday, if we’re lucky.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “They could simply refuse to hear it. Period. Our options then fall considerably more narrow...as in the governor or the high court.”

  “You mean the Florida Supreme Court?”

  “I mean the U.S. Supreme Court.”

  O’Brien was silent.

  “To get Governor Owens's ear, we’ll need something tangible. A pending DNA test, something like that would legitimately give reason for doubt until the tests were conclusive…one way or the other. The Supreme Court may simply refuse to hear it. We could ask for a stay alleging lethal injection is a cruel and unusually painful way to fulfill the mandate of the lower court. However, in this, all we’re saying is you can go on and kill Williams, you just need to kill him in a
kinder, gentler, less painful way.”

  “So what are our odds in any of the scenarios?”

  “Not good. I’ll launch every legal red flag I can. What can you do next?”

  “I’m going to look at a painting.”

  “What?”

  “A fifteenth century painting.”

  “You pick a hell of a time to visit an art museum.”

  “Maybe. A painting from the past may be the best thing we have right now to keep an execution for happening in the future.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m not sure. A friend of mine has spent some time these last few days on the computer, researching and analyzing an image that Father Callahan left in blood.” O’Brien paused, “I know it’s going to sound weird…”

  “Trust me, I was a defense attorney, nothing sounds weird.”

  “This might. The painting is somehow tied to the Greek letter Omega, the last letter, and the twenty-forth letter in the Greek alphabet. If the painting can reveal the link, the connection between all of this, it might spell out the real killer’s name or something that will give you that tangible evidence to take to somebody’s court.”

  Tucker smiled. “You’d mentioned the image, a cloaked figure or something silhouetted against the moon, correct?”

  “I know I’d seen it somewhere before. Kind of like a scent you haven’t smelled in years, and you remember a time and place you thought was forgotten a long time ago. I saw an image of clouds against the moon the other night, and I remembered a painting of the Virgin Mary, sort of descending with the moon, or maybe she was rising with the moon. Now I remember she was looking down at a man. I don’t know who he was, but he was looking up at her and taking notes. Can you take me to the airport?”

  “Let’s go.”